


The Mysterious Case of Malfoy's 21st Birthday

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Badly and better), (and other things), Anal Sex, Everyone being horrible, First Times, Flirting, Humor, Loss of Virginity, M/M, RST, References to bondage, Rimming, UST, but nicely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 07:43:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13565988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: As soon as Harry shows up to Malfoy's birthday party, he knows he's made a mistake. But when all of his friends decide to be nothing but fucking weird around him, he decides to stay and figure out why.At least... that'ssort of whyhe stays.





	The Mysterious Case of Malfoy's 21st Birthday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noeon (noe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noe/gifts).



> Noe, I apologise most sincerely for how long this took (even though — unless your wife is a big blabbermouth — you probably didn't know to expect it. lol). Your fics and friendship and blessedly perverted mind have brought me more delight than I could ever express, and I'm so glad I know you. :D 
> 
> Idk if I can call this a birthday fic anymore (despite the theme), but maybe a Happy Early Valentine's? LOL. Or a something in between? A Birthentine's gift? Omg ilysm I'm sorry, this fic is weird but I adore you so much! <3
> 
> And thank you SO SO MUCH to [untilourapathy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gwendolen_lotte/pseuds/untilourapathy) for such a thoughtful, speedy beta and for helping me clean up the mess this started as. LOL. <3 
> 
> All characters belong to JKR and associated publishers. 'Cept for Tosser. He's Draco's.

How Harry ends up at Draco Malfoy’s birthday party is a mystery, for two reasons.

The first is that Malfoy still only barely tolerates him, for the most part. Though he and Harry work in good sync when paired together and have even shared a drink a time or two — at least until a few months ago, when he suddenly refused to drink around Harry at _all_ , the arsehole — he still seems like the same, arrogant, snobbish prick that Harry knew at Hogwarts. He somehow always has a fresh supply of complaints about Harry whenever they run into each other outside of work: Harry’s hair is an outrageous insult, Harry’s hero complex is going to get his partner killed, Harry is a right twat for accepting open-ended season tickets to any British match in the league — “That’s not even a _thing_ , Potter; they made it up for _you_ , you arrogant shit for brains.” — just because he was the exalted Saviour. Being oddly fascinated by someone who rarely says a nice word in front of him is disconcerting, and so Harry does everything in his power to avoid being around him.

Because, for the second reason, hiding a constant erection around someone who barely tolerates him is not Harry’s idea of a good time.

So no, Harry shouldn’t have shown up. He wasn’t even sure why he’d given the invitation a second glance when it had been Owled to him — out of Merlin’sfuck _nowhere_ — that very morning. Though even _Ron_ was going (the damned traitor), Harry knew he should have binned the invite as soon as it arrived; just because their friend groups commingled these days didn’t mean he had to subject himself to further punishment. But for some reason he’d thrown it on his counter instead, and when he found himself at home alone for the fifth night in a row, reheating suspicious-smelling takeaway, his eyes had landed on it for several moments until the heating charm dinged. The paper was heavy, textured, the words engraved in silver and strangely mesmerising, and Harry thought, _at least it’s something to do._

But so were dozens of other things, so — looking around — he can't quite figure out why he’d shown up. 

And he’s not the only one, it seems.

“Who invited you?” Malfoy asks flatly, shoving a drink into his hand. Harry’s fingers close automatically around the heavy glass — oh, _no_ , no disposable cups at a _Malfoy_ party, Harry supposes — and he swirls it for a moment, adopting an indifferent expression partly to hide his confusion, and partly because he knows it’ll annoy.

“It’s your party,” Harry says after a moment, taking a sip of the golden drink that tastes smoky-sharp like whisky, but without the burn. He looks at it in appreciation, then back at Malfoy. “You tell me. This is good.”

“Obviously someone playing a joke,” Malfoy says snidely, turning to survey the guests milling around his flat. He’s widened his sitting room to allow for more standing space, if Harry remembers correctly, and added a heavily-laden buffet table filled with a rotating array of foods; every few minutes, the selections wink out and renew as something else, each option more tantalising than the last — and all surrounding a silver-dusted white cake that seems big enough to feed ten times the number of guests that Malfoy’s invited. There’s also a full bar on the far wall next to the gift table, manned by a tiny elf who seems excited to rub the shining counter with a little rag in between filling orders. None of it is overwhelming — except perhaps the cake — and all lends to the perception of understated wealth and fine taste; it’s rather fascinating, in its way. 

But Harry’s eyes linger on Malfoy for a moment instead, on his lanky body outfitted in inky black trousers and a bright white silk shirt with a waistcoat in royal blue; he even has a watch fob for fuck’s sake, as if he’s an old-world Muggle who needs one, as if he’s allowed to _look_ that way in Muggle clothes. Except, he’s left off his tie and his collar is unbuttoned, and when Harry tilts his head just right, he can see the line of Malfoy’s clavicle all the way to his shoulder. “It’s goblin whisky. If you ruin my party, you’re out on your arse, Potter; I don’t care who you are. You could have at least dressed as though you care what you look like.”

Harry takes deeper sip and looks down at his best charcoal trousers, burgundy button-down, and black tie, irritated at the barb — _not_ insulted or suddenly self-conscious in any way; he’s never given a toss what Malfoy thinks about his fashion sense, of course — but not surprised. Blandly, he says, “But I don’t.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, then drains his glass. He twitches his fingers in Harry’s direction, not looking at him. “Give.”

“Give you...what?” Harry asks, heart lurching oddly, half-hard cock twitching against his thigh.

“Your _glass_ , Potter,” Malfoy says with an overabundance of exasperation — far too much for Harry’s valid question, in his opinion. “I’m going to refill your glass.”

Surprised, Harry realises he’s already drunk all of his whisky. He wordlessly passes the crystal tumbler over, missing both the cool weight of it and the answer of what to do with his hands. He clasps them in front of himself as a solution to two problems. “I’d prefer it without poison, thank you,” he says, flicking Malfoy a narrow look, a challenging smile.

“Please. As if you’re worth the expense of my good poison,” Malfoy says, silvery eyes glinting at him sharply, then stalks off into the crowd. 

Harry’s gaze follows him simply for the fact that hair that pale tends to draw notice, but soon loses sight of him amongst the guests. He considers wandering around to find Ron and Hermione or Pansy and Gin, but decides that staying below the radar is probably the better idea considering where he is; besides, Malfoy is supposed to come back with another drink. So he lingers instead, glancing around Malfoy’s flat to see what else he missed the one and only time he’d ever been there before, just six months back, after they’d all passed their training and gone out for drinks. 

He doesn’t remember whose idea it was to go there, but Malfoy, probably just as pissed as the rest of them at that point, had obviously offered — likely to show off his ability to live like an adult at the age of twenty, with an actual, decorated home that didn’t look like it was shared with seven blokes from university. Harry had fallen half-asleep against Ron on the sofa, then ended up making his way to the luxurious bathroom to sick up for a half hour before Ron found him a hydration potion and guided him home to undress him down to the skin and tuck him in, asking him daft questions to keep him focused and kissing his forehead like he was a child.

So the sofa (dusky blue, with round, tufted arms and cushions he remembers sinking into against Ron’s shoulder), and the preposterous loo (made up in gleaming porcelain and marble,  
fitted with gold fixtures), he remembers. But the wall-length bookshelf packed with novels, each with well-creased spines, comes as a bit of a surprise. For someone who’s such a know-it-all at work, constantly giving suggestions where none are needed, Harry would have expected any bookshelf Malfoy had to be stuffed with academic texts and antique heirloom scrolls. But Malfoy even seems to have a line of graphic novels taking up one whole shelf, each upright and sealed in plastic. 

Cut into the middle of the bookshelf is a rather large fish tank filled with tropical fish, lit up with a blue light that ripples as the swimming shadows cross it. As Harry watches, a small black cat leaps delicately onto the shelf beside it and paws at the lid as if to try to pry it up.

“Hey,” Harry says softly, walking over to it. It glances at him with dismissive green eyes then resumes, managing to wedge a tiny paw between the rim of the tank and the lid of it. Harry picks it up, stroking its fuzzy head until its flattened ears rise again and it begins purring. “Don’t kill Malfoy’s fish.”

“Her name’s Tosser,” Ron says from behind him. Harry turns around with a scowl. 

“And _how_ often do you come here, that you know that?”

To his satisfaction, a flicker of guilt crosses Ron’s face. He holds out another tumbler of goblin whisky. “Here. Malfoy told me to give this to you,” he says. Then, more plaintively, “It’s not like I _want_ to. But his best friend is dating my sister, and Hermione says I have to be supportive, and Pansy likes to come over here because Malfoy needs people to practice his cooking on, and—”

“He _cooks_?” Harry says incredulously, choking on a long swallow of his drink and startling Tosser, who’s settled quite nicely into the crook of his arm. She looks up at him, blinking, then squirms as if offended, her claws sinking into the fabric covering his forearm. Harry winces and lets her down, absently adjusting the lid of the fish tank. “Who _is_ he, lately?”

“Same old Malfoy. Just...not,” Ron says sagely. He nudges Harry’s elbow with his arm. “Come on. You’ve noticed.”

“I don’t notice anything!” Harry objects before he realises how that sounds. “I mean, I don’t notice Malfoy. He and I are like...combustible potions ingredients.”

Ron snorts and mutters, “I’d wager,” with a pointed glance downward. Harry glares at him. 

“Meaning?”

“You passed both your written and practical Ministry exams with flying colours, so I don’t know why you keep pretending to be stupid. You know exactly what I mean,” Ron says sourly. Then he adds, “and I’m not saying it out loud, and you can’t make me, and I hate everyone right now, and I need more to drink,” before throwing up his hands, shaking his head and walking off. 

Harry debates following him, but Ron in the middle of a strop is a Ron he likes to avoid, and besides… he doesn’t really want to force Ron to explain what he meant. Tosser has fucked off to who-knows-where and Malfoy obviously isn’t returning with his drink, so he looks around for someone else he knows instead; after a moment, his eyes pick up the flaming glints of Ginny’s hair and the jet gleam of Pansy’s, and he heads over to them. 

“You came,” Pansy says dubiously, like he might not really be there at all even as Ginny leans into him and wraps one arm around his waist. She looks lovely, wearing tight, shiny silver trousers that hit above her ankle and a flowy black top with criss-cross straps across the back, just like her shoes have. He drops a kiss onto her head then nuzzles it for a moment, mostly just to to irritate Pansy — but not in small part because the scent of Ginny’s shampoo still does a lot for him. 

“Was it you that invited me, then?” Harry asks drily, pleased with the scowl on her face. “Having some fun at my expense?”

“While anything at your expense causes me _great_ pleasure,” Pansy says, her nose wrinkling, “no. I didn’t even think it was a good idea for—”

“Glad you’re here!” Ginny cuts in with suspicious perkiness; her eyes lock with Pansy’s, and they do that couple thing Harry knows from watching Ron and Hermione, and Molly and Arthur: a quick, silent shorthand. Pansy seems to lose whatever mental argument they have — fairly impressive of Ginny, Harry thinks, for only having been dating Pansy for a couple of months — and pastes a smile on. 

“Of course, Harry,” she says, sugary-sweet. “I hope you brought a good present. Draco’s very particular about his gifts, you know. Anything he doesn’t like gets _incinerated_. As it should.” She gives a pointed look to Ginny, who snorts.

Harry shrugs, not wanting to betray his embarrassment over his last minute purchase; he still hasn’t quite got the hang of buying grown-up gifts — Ron’s always happy with Canon’s tickets, and Hermione only ever wants books or quills — so he can’t be sure if the tie he got Malfoy is appropriate, though the amount of gold spent on it should satisfy even someone of Malfoy’s tastes. It’s a replacement gift, anyway; the envelope in his pocket implies all sorts of things Malfoy could misconstrue, which is why he decided to leave it there when setting the wrapped tie on the gift table. “It’s fine. Why; what’d you get him?”

Pansy opens her mouth to brag and Ginny kicks out with the tip of her strappy black heels, shoe connecting lightly with Pansy’s shin. And really, if there’s one good thing that’s come out of them dating, it’s that Ginny’s able to shut her up on occasion.

“Nothing,” Pansy finally mutters. “Can you stop hugging her now?”

“No.” He tilts Ginny’s chin up and brushes a friendly kiss against her cheek. “Wanna dance?”

Ginny rolls her eyes, planting a hand in the middle of his chest to push him back. “Not nice, Harry. And you’re a horrible dancer, and if you keep this up, I’m going to stop protecting you from her,” she says, then kicks him with more force than she did Pansy. 

“No, no, you can do it again,” Pansy assures him, eyes lighting at Ginny’s threat.

“There’s no music,” Malfoy says, words clipped and precise. Harry jumps and turns, his arm falling from around Ginny’s shoulders to face him; his cheeks go hot, and Malfoy’s upper lip curls into a sneer. “Nor will there be.”

“Draco, you’ve the dance floor all ready in other room!” Pansy says, slinking over to him like Harry’d watched her do back at Hogwarts, stroking his forearm and batting her eyes up at him. He feels an odd creak from the glass in his hand and looks down, then makes himself loosen his grip lest it shatter. “Ginny and I were going to—”

“ _No,_ Pans,” Malfoy says, lifting his chin. “Those tactics have never worked on me, and they never will, so stop it.” She laughs, letting her hand fall away. She and Malfoy share a smile — intimate, warm — and for a second, Harry can see why Ginny likes her so much. Then Malfoy’s eyes dart to him. “I decided I don’t like music.”

“You… don’t like music?” Harry echoes, feeling on the verge of a laugh, though he can’t pinpoint why. “Don’t you play the piano?”

“I can decide what I like and what I don’t like.” Malfoy pushes another glass into his hand and takes the empty one; the tips of his fingers — warm and wand calloused — seem to linger against Harry’s knuckles for a moment too long. Harry looks down, bewildered, then back up when Malfoy says, “Just because you expect everyone to like the things _you_ like—”

“Shut it, Malfoy, I _do not_ ,” Harry says. “Even _I_ don’t like some of the things I like.” He stops, unsettled by the sudden glimmer of curious interest in Malfoy’s gaze. He takes a long sip of his drink to avoid it; it really is very cool going down, refreshing, like Molly’s lemonade in the summer. 

“Oh, _really_?” Malfoy’s voice goes lower, one eyebrow arching up in that way he has that’s always played hell on Harry’s nerves. “You’re not going to tell me you play Quidditch even though you loathe it. Or eat things you don’t enjoy?”

“I enjoy all the things I—” Harry cuts himself off and takes a step back, wondering how he and Malfoy got so close, and for the first time all night — maybe ever — Malfoy flashes him a smile that’s warm with genuine amusement, mouth curving up to white teeth. One of his canines is slightly crooked, and Harry catalogues it without meaning to, like he does with the other Malfoy-details that humanise him: the crinkles outside his eyes when he laughs; how he holds his chopsticks as though they’re a fork; that time he saw Malfoy crouching down low in his Auror uniform, heedless of the way his robes dragged in the dirt, just to talk to a child whose father was being taken in for questioning. Harry’s stomach flips in a way exclusive to Malfoy, like when he does the eyebrow thing. “I, uh, meant to say. Happy birthday. Even if I wasn’t wanted.”

“I wouldn’t say _that_ , Potter,” Malfoy says slowly, still watching him. He chuckles. “But then, I wouldn’t say it even if it was true, so…”

“Nice.” Harry finds himself grinning at the insult and tips his glass in a modified _cheers_ , turning to include Pansy and Ginny in it, only to find that they’ve disappeared. “Where’d they get off to?”

“Probably shagging on my bed,” Malfoy says with a tiny moue of distaste. He startles Harry by clinking the lip of his champagne flute against Harry’s glass before taking a long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing, throat long and elegant and pale as he tilts his head back. When he lifts it, he exhales loudly, then flicks at a tiny drop of moisture at the corner of his mouth with his pinky. “They have done, before.”

“Wow.” Unsure whether he should be appalled or fascinated — his own sex life has consisted of Ginny, always either in his bed or hers at the Burrow, as well as that one bloke who blew him on his sofa while wanking himself — Harry settles on a wobbly, commiserating little half-shake of his head, feeling more than a little boring. 

“I know, right?” Malfoy comes to stand at his elbow, turning to face the thinning crowd of guests who seem to be slowly making their way into the other room, despite the lack of music. “While I, myself, do my level best to have no shame in the bedroom these days, I don’t necessarily want those two messing up my sheets. Two thousand thread count, fairy silk. They could at least do it in the guest closet or something, if they can’t wait,” he adds, far too casually for how Harry’s trousers immediately become tighter. Harry curses mentally, then jerks his head to indicate the buffet.

“I’m gonna get something to eat. Pair it with the whisky,” he mutters. To Harry’s consternation — and his cock’s great delight — Malfoy seems to take that as an invitation to follow him, but at least stays on the opposite side of the food-laden table to allow Harry some coverage. 

“Try the porcini tartlets,” Malfoy says, watching him as he fills his small plate with food he mostly recognises. 

“The, uh, mushrooms, right?” Harry picks one up, looking at it for a long moment — the base of the puff pastry is flaky in his hand, the tiny, sliced mushrooms on top glistening with olive oil and topped with a sprinkle of chives — then pops it in his mouth and chews, closing his eyes and failing to bite back a groan at the buttery, woodsy, salt of it. There are even _walnuts_ hidden beneath the mushrooms. “Fuck.” He opens his eyes to find Malfoy staring at him. “‘S’really good.”

Malfoy blinks several times, his nearly-empty champagne flute frozen in midair, lips barely parted and lashes fluttering madly. “I… Have to say hello to…”

Without finishing the sentence he turns and walks away. Harry feels oddly deflated at the abrupt dismissal just as they were starting to get along, but fortunately, so does his erection. He listlessly picks at the other options he’s filled his plate with, but they all lack taste despite the delicious smells wafting up at him, so he when he spots Neville and Blaise at the bar, he sets his plate onto the Vanishing tray and heads over. “Hey.”

Strangely, they both jump; Nev’s eyes widen comically. “Harry! You’re here!”

“Uh, yeah.” Though, like Pansy, he’s starting to wonder if he actually _is_ , based on everyone’s reaction. He looks at Neville, suddenly suspicious. “I got an invitation. Was that you?”

Neville gawps at him, mouth opening and closing like one of Malfoy’s tropical fish — doing absolutely nothing to blunt Neville’s now-striking bone structure and perfect blond hair — and Harry’s instincts give a teasing little flutter. 

“Potter,” Blaise says, drawing his attention away from Neville. Harry laughs in confusion; Blaise hasn’t called him by his last name in months.

“Zabini?” he returns pointedly, gesturing to the elf behind the bar wearing a black-and-white, floral printed pillowcase — cinched at the waist with a black, satin curtain sash — and a black ribbon tied into a bow around one of her floppy ears. She smiles at him. “May I have a Goblin whisky, please?”

Blaise blocks him bodily, half-shoving him and making him stumble.When she sets it on the bartop, he grabs it first before turning and passing it over, smiling widely. “Here you go.”

Harry splutters. “Why did you push me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry,” Blaise says, raising an eyebrow. “If I’d have pushed you, I’d have laid you flat. Look at me.” He gestures to himself smugly, as though having two inches and two stone on Harry will somehow extinguish the validity of the _very real push_ he gave him. He glances at the drink he did it for. “Are you sure you want another one of those?”

“I’m perfectly sober,” Harry says, frustrated. He’s pretty sure he is, anyway. He sets the drink on the bar and folds his arms over his chest. “ _What’s_ going on? Why is everyone being so fucking weird tonight?” The most gorgeous man he knows stares at him flatly, so he turns to the second most gorgeous man; Neville’s more likely to break, anyhow. “Well?”

“Neville, I think Hannah just showed up,” Blaise says, and Neville pauses in the act of opening his mouth again to shoot him a grateful smile. 

“See you!” he says cheerfully, waving uncomfortably at Harry and starting away.

“Why did you grab my drink?” Harry says stiffly. “Did you invite me to this thing? I’m all for fucking with Malfoy, but come on, this is his _birthday_. And if you’re waiting for him to embarrass _me,_ I doubt there’s anything he’d be able to do at this point.”

“Parties make you paranoid,” Blaise says coolly. 

“ _You’re_ making me paranoid,” Harry says. “Since when am I ‘Potter’ again?”

“Didn’t know you’d changed your name at any point,” Blaise says, though he looks a little chagrined. Probably more at the slip, than anything else, Harry thinks, studying him. “Or that it mattered to you _what_ I called you. I’m touched. Reserving it for someone else?”

Harry picks up his drink; he actually _isn’t_ anywhere drunk enough for this, and his ears are burning. 

“I was just leaving,” he says, after his glass is empty. He can sort of feel the alcohol in his system now, that light sort of buzz making his blood fizzle and giving him an extra hiccup of regrettable courage, and with it comes a persistent idea he’s been successfully avoiding for months. Otherwise, he feels normal; no room twisting, no faint sense of nausea. “I’ve already dropped off my gift and wished Malfoy a happy birthday. And you all are fucking nuts.”

Blaise clears his throat, face softening. He smiles at Harry in a way that puts him instantly on guard. “We’re just fucking with you, Harry. It’s so easy to, about Draco. You guys are like two cats in,” he coughs, not bothering to hide a smirk, “a fight. You should stay.”

“For what?” Harry relaxes a little at the snark, glancing around. “Weren’t there more people here? Not everyone can want to dance when there’s no music.”

“There’s more seating in the other room, so people can eat,” Blaise says. Harry scowls, thinking of standing next to the buffet while he ate his food. Blaise takes his shoulders and turns him, his voice a warm huff of air next to Harry’s ear. “Stay for that,” he says quietly, nodding at a handsome man tapping on the fish tank glass. 

“You’re not supposed to tap on a fish tank,” Harry says. He hesitates; the man is tall and blond, his hair several shades darker than Malfoy’s, and his face rounder. He’s also not quite as lean or lanky, and a bit broader across the chest and shoulders than Harry likes, and his eyes are blue when he flicks them over impassively in their direction… but he’s handsome, nonetheless. And he looks familiar. “Who is that?”

“Theo Nott,” Blaise tells him, sounding pleased. The name clicks and Harry grimaces; it took enough out of him to give Blaise and Pansy a chance, and he saw them during training nearly every day for almost two years, and as for _Malfoy_... 

As if able to read his thoughts, Blaise says, “He’s alright. Went to France right before the Battle; was a bit of a shit as a kid, like a lot of us, but I guess he fell in love with a Muggle-born wizard while he was gone and it mellowed him out. You should talk to him,” he adds, giving Harry’s shoulder a — thankfully gentler — shove.

Harry trips forward a step. “Why?”

“He’s single now, you’re single now.” Blaise shrugs. “Both good looking, both nice enough. He’s great with potions and likes Quidditch.”

“So?”

Blaise snorts, not dignifying that one with an answer, and Harry winces. Blaise gives him another nudge. “Really. I’ve been meaning to bring him up to you. He always thought you were hot in school.”

“He thought what?” Harry asks, slanting him a disbelieving glance.

“Please, as if you don’t know how many did,” Blaise says, snorting. 

Harry pauses. It’s nothing Hermione hasn’t said — even Ron’s made reference to it, a time or two — but it seems obvious that most of those people were only interested in him because of his name. Still, he knows he’s not horrible-looking, either, and training has whipped him into even better shape than even Quidditch had, so he finally nods, eyes on Theo. “He’s not seeing anyone?” he asks, trying to motivate some interest.

“Completely free,” Blaise assures him. 

Harry squares his shoulders and, with another suspicious look at Blaise, strides over to Theo. “Hi.”

“Potter,” he says, surprised. Theo’s teeth, Harry notices when he smiles, are perfectly straight. 

Harry frowns, then forces a reciprocal smile. “Just Harry,” he says uncomfortably. “Call me Harry.”

“Harry,” Theo says, so smoothly that Harry takes an instant dislike to him. But Blaise was like that too, before they’d gone to the pub together that first time, so Harry takes a deep breath. 

“Blaise tells me you just returned from France.”

“Mmm.” There’s something curious about his smile, as though he can’t quite figure out what Harry is doing talking to _him_ , and Harry’s shoulders come down a bit — until he catches the implicit, narrow challenge in Theo’s eyes when he flicks a glance past Harry’s shoulder. Harry turns and sees Blaise swiftly shaking his head; at Harry’s gaze, he smiles and swivels on the ball of his foot to engage in conversation with an elegant witch Harry thinks he recognises as an Unspeakable.

“What—”

“Harry,” Theo says, voice going low and silky, “I don’t suppose you’d want to dance, later.” He latches a firm hand around Harry’s elbow, and pulls him a step closer. Harry goes, mystified and not a little bemused — the Goblin whisky, perhaps, making itself known. 

“There won’t be any music tonight. Malfoy said,” he murmurs, looking down when Theo tightens his hand. He follows the line of it up to his arm, his broad shoulder, then back to his face. Theo _has_ grown into his looks. ...It’s a shame Harry can’t drum up any real interest, except to find out what the bloody hell is going on. 

“Who says you need music?” Theo smirks, raising one eyebrow. 

 

“What kind of dancing are we talking, here?” Harry says, mimicking the gesture. Theo makes a small, appreciative sound, blue eyes growing heavy-lidded. 

“Whatever kind you like.” He lowers his breath and takes a step closer; their chests brush. Harry catches the bubble of a snort before it escapes, and Theo whispers, “I always thought you were good looking. Do you top or bottom?”

Yanking his head back incredulously, the snort escapes — followed by a torrent of wild giggles. At first Theo looks cautiously pleased, but when Harry glances back up through watering eyes a minute later, unable to stem his laughter, he looks downright offended. 

“Wh- what the fuck?” Harry manages, finally, _finally_ pushed to his limit. He’s buoyed by the joke no one will let him in on, the sheer absurdity of the come on after having spoken to Theo for all of thirty seconds. Grinning, still breathless, he cheerfully says, “Top, bottom. Why not do both? Hey, Blaise is practically a god. Let’s bring him too. And Malfoy. He’s fit as fuck. We’ll have an orgy. Cocks everywhere, so no one has to choose.”

“While I appreciate being included,” Malfoy says drily from behind him, turning Harry’s blood cold, “I actually kissed Blaise once, two years back. It was… Weird. And Theo’s not my type.”

“Same, Draco,” Theo says. He drops his hand from Harry’s arm with a sigh. 

“What’s your type?” Harry asks through bone-dry lips, not sure who he’s talking to. Must be Theo, though; he can’t bring himself to turn his head to look at Malfoy, who’s moved to his opposite side. Theo’s mouth twitches, and he dips his head in a brief, contemplative nod.

“Dark haired. Strong, tall.” His mouth quirks. “Funny, smart, charming.”

“Leaves me out,” Harry jokes shakily. 

“I don’t know,” Malfoy murmurs. “Five out of six isn’t bad.”

Some of Harry’s nerves ease at Malfoy’s light taunt, and Harry slants him a smile, only to see that Malfoy’s gaze has darkened to a deep, stormy grey. He blinks, startled, because an eye colour like that shouldn’t feel so… hot. 

But it _does,_ and Harry shifts uneasily, feeling Malfoy’s eyes like pinpoints of sensation over his each pulse point — throat and wrists and temples and groin. His body feels heavy suddenly, in each spot, and his cheeks grow warm.

Then Malfoy breaks his gaze to smirk at Theo. “He’s shorter than both of us, after all.”

Theo laughs, but there’s the sharp, cutting edge of irritation to it, and his friendly smile at Malfoy carries the undercurrent of competition. “Only a bit shorter than you,” he says, straightening. 

“I’m six foot,” Harry protests, the lazy heat introduced by Malfoy’s perusal still flickering through his body. Then he stops, because did Malfoy just imply—? Turning, he takes the extra drink from Malfoy’s hand, mumbling, “This is mine, I assume?” and downs it in one go, coughing slightly and wiping his chin when there turns out to be more liquor than his mouth can hold. 

Malfoy rolls his eyes, but sidles closer and looks at Theo again. “Didn’t you bring a plus one?”

“My cousin Natalie,” Theo says smugly, taking a step back in, so that Harry’s bracketed on both sides. “You remember her; your parents were in talks with hers for a while back in fourth year.”

“Ah, yes. She was nice. Gave me my first blowjob at fifteen, determined to show me she could be a good wife someday. I had to close my eyes to finish, but it wasn’t bad.” he says with a rueful smile into his drink. He looks at Harry levelly. “Mine are better.”

Harry chokes, “ _Malfoy!_ ” just as Theo says, “I give an _amazing_ blowjob,” and then both Malfoy and Theo are pressing in on Harry’s sides to argue about... about... about being better at things Harry’s never even _tried_ — “Will you rim a bloke even when you plan on bottoming?” Malfoy growls, leaning in front of him, one hand finding its way to the small of Harry’s back to keep him in place — let alone _heard of_ , in some cases (what the bloody fuck is a flip fuck, and why is Theo so proud of having done it?). Malfoy’s face gets steadily redder, his upper lip curling in that way that tends to fascinate Harry when it’s not directed at him, and Theo’s posh, unruffled countenance gives way to a petulant whinge. 

“ _Dra-co!_ ” he says, cutting Malfoy off in the middle of a rant about bondage that makes Harry want to punch Theo for interrupting. “You said—”

“Months ago,” Malfoy snaps. In the last two minutes, Harry realises that he’s somehow become wedged to Malfoy’s side...and hasn’t done anything to pull away. He gives a mental shrug; he doesn’t really see a reason to step away yet, and Malfoy’s surprisingly warm and solid for someone so slender. “More than a year, really. Go find your _date_.”

With a huff, Theo glares at both of them, then steps around Malfoy and stomps off. Harry cranes his neck to see that the room has mostly cleared, at least, with the exception of Hermione talking to Luna in the corner and Blaise, who looks positively delighted as he watches Theo disappear into the other room.

Harry looks back at Malfoy, who’s still breathing hard, hand a tight, proprietary clamp around his hip, and Harry feels a flutter of, of _understanding_ ; Malfoy looks a bit like Harry’d felt when he’d seen Malfoy necking with that random bloke at the Leaky a few nights before he’d invited everyone over. Though surely that can’t be right.

“Bondage?” he asks, sounding oddly breathless to his own ears. “You’re into… kink?”

“I’m into a lot of things,” Malfoy says dismissively, eyes going shifty. The hand on Harry’s hip tightens, then drops. Malfoy steps away, but Harry follows him in a quick shuffle, the drink coursing through his veins making it far easier than it might be otherwise. Malfoy’s eyes dip, then come back up to his face, the cut of his sharp cheekbones creating odd shadows in the hollows of his cheeks from the angled, appraising tilt of his head. His voice is measured. “I apologise for Theo. That was… an appalling way to flirt.”

“I didn’t mind, as you probably saw,” Harry says, smiling as though his prick isn’t about to pop; it’d be obvious if Malfoy looked down, but he seems intent on studying his own parlour with great interest. “How would you do it?”

“I… wouldn’t,” Malfoy says stiffly. Harry swallows the sharp burst of disappointment as the seriousness of Malfoy’s tone penetrates, but then Malfoy continues, “I’d simply make it inevitable that _they_ would, so I could respond.” He finally drags his eyes to Harry’s for a single, dizzying second. “Excuse me,” he licks the bow of his lower lip, looking strangely panicked, “I have to say hi to someone.”

And then he walks away — _again_ , goddamn it! — leaving Harry to with no other recourse but to call after him, “You’re making it… _evitable_ , Malfoy!” Satisfyingly, Malfoy trips on his own feet on his way out of the room, and Harry hunches his shoulders miserably as he heads over to Hermione and Luna. “I don’t suppose either of you will tell me what’s going on?”

“Why Harry,” Luna says, blinking up at him. “I thought you would have figured it out by now.”

“A little, I think,” Harry says cautiously, relief spilling through him. He shakes his head at Hermione, who opens her mouth to object, then adds, “Malfoy likes me.”

“No more than you like him,” Luna says placidly. “It’s really sweet. I mean, gross, but...sweet.”

“We’re not doing anything!” Hermione finally interjects, voice high. Harry glances at her suspiciously, then decides to ignore her. She’s never been a good liar when it comes to personal things, but she sticks to her stories like a Crup with a bone. 

“Who says I like Malfoy?” Harry demands, though just the right amount of magical liquor seems to disallow the denial of it. 

“Well, him,” Luna says, counting on her fingers, “and Ron, and Hermione, and me and Blaise and Ginny and Pansy, and then there’s that fellow that just yelled at Draco about sucking the life out of your cock — he seemed to think Draco liked you enough that he had to compete for your attention. Oh, that was Theo, wasn’t it? I haven’t seen him since—”

“Luna.”

“Right, sorry. Well, I don’t _know_ a lot of your Auror group, do I?” she asks practically. “But I’d be willing to bet most of those; honestly, you two scent each other like Unicorns in mating season. And then there’s Marianne, who works with me in Magical Creatures; she was quite sad when she saw you and Draco arguing in the canteen two months ago; she’s had a crush on you for ages, Harry, and — Hermione, didn’t you say the Unspeakables have a pool going on whether they’d shag or kill each other first? How many were there?”

“None!” Hermione gasps out, dramatically pressing a hand over her chest. Harry crosses his arm and stares at her; her face falls then normalises, and she even ticks a tiny, mischievous smile at him. “Seven. But we still didn’t do anything!”

“I didn’t _accuse_ you of doing anything,” Harry says impatiently. “Malfoy’s the one who— Wait.” He looks closer at her eyes, unable to meet his. Slowly, he says, “Luna, what did you all do?”

“Well, we had to do _something_ , didn’t we?” She smiles sweetly at him and Harry reminds himself that everyone loves Luna; she’s probably one of the only people in the _world_ he’d go immediately to Azkaban for killing. “You obviously won’t do it yourselves, and it _is_ his birthday. Draco didn’t do _much_ beyond fiddle with your drink once he saw you were here, and tell everyone we’re not allowed to let you—”

“Luna!” Hermione says in the verbal equivalent of stamping her foot. 

Luna gives her an strange glance, looking as more fed up than Harry’d known she could look. Which still isn’t much, and is accompanied by a pitying smile that does more for wilting his erection than anything else has so far tonight. “Nothing,” Luna says, sighing. Harry starts to glare at Hermione, but then Luna adds, “Get drunk.”

Harry barks a laugh. “But people have been feeding me drinks for the last…” He does a double-take at the clock above the fancy transfigured bar. “Have I only been here for an hour? Wait, why am I not allowed to get drunk?”

“Because you think Draco is Ron when you’re drunk,” Luna says, smiling wide and cheerful at him. Though it’s one of the things he loves best about her, Harry wants to laugh again at the sheer preposterousness of the statement… until he glances at Hermione, who bites her lip and peeks up at him from under dark lashes. 

“ _What!_ ” 

“Just once,” Hermione says hastily. “Months ago! I wasn’t even here.”

“Here,” Harry says, blank for one long, beautiful moment. But then he looks around at the widened sitting room, eyes falling to the big blue sofa, empty of party guests, and thinks of nodding off on Ron’s shoulder, then feeling Ron pet his hair back as he threw up for ungodly amounts of time over a toilet he was pretty sure would spray him in the face if he hit the wrong handle. Thinks of Ron disrobing him, saying weird things about his reputation for being brave. Thinks of a strange, sweet kiss on the forehead that had felt odd at the time, coming from his best mate, but that he’d liked all the same. And the only response he can come up with — pulled from the depths of his gut where mortification _should_ be unravelling, yet somehow isn’t — is a weak, “But Ron has red hair.”

“Exactly,” Luna says, pleased. “Draco was really offended.”

“What am I drinking?” Harry asks after several seconds of managing to stay upright while the world is ending around him. He’s getting good at that, he thinks dismally.

“Goblin whisky,” Hermione whispers, biting her lip. “I _swear_ I was talked into this! I didn’t see the harm; I checked it first,” she adds, as if that helps. “I figured if you wanted someone else, it’d just… steer you in the direction of who you were most attracted to. Goblin whisky fuels people to go after their romantic desires. But…”

“The alcohol has been taken out of yours,” Luna puts in. “Hello Draco!”

Harry spins to see Draco frozen in a peculiar crouch; his torso leans away, setting his weight against his bent back leg, as though he’d decided to sneak away before being seen. Harry glowers at the glowing gold drink in his hand, half-reached toward Harry, then looks back up to glower directly into his face instead, rapidly turning red under his gaze. 

“Excuse me,” he mutters, seeming to realise how bizarre he looks, if the way he straightens is any indication. “I see someone I have to—”

“Me,” Harry grinds out. “You have to talk to _me_.” He snatches the champagne flute out of Malfoy’s other hand and drinks it. Malfoy opens his mouth to object then immediately closes it, teeth clicking audibly. Harry takes another long swallow. “And I guess I’ll talk to _Ron_.”

Something savage flickers in Malfoy’s face. He draws himself up. “Well, why not. You at least have interesting conversations with _him_.” He snorts. “Though I _was_ surprised.”

Stepping closer, Harry crowds him, grudgingly impressed when Malfoy refuses to step away. “And what did we talk about.”

“How much you like me,” Malfoy says, jerking his chin up.

Harry scoffs. He’s barely admitted that part to _himself_ ; there’s no way Ron would hear it, Harry thinks, even if his full blood volume had been replaced with liquor. “Liar. Try again.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrow. “How much you want me.”

“That, I’ll believe,” Harry says. Malfoy’s lips pull into a different sort of smirk: one that looks faintly vulnerable underneath his inborn arrogance. Harry files it away along with everything else. “So then, why have you kept walking away tonight?”

“So you would come _after_ me, you twat,” Malfoy blusters. “Which you _haven’t._ ”

“I’m here now,” Harry says after a pause. He swallows painfully, throat suddenly gone dry, because Malfoy’s looking down at his lips too, and in his eyes Harry can practically flip through the Potter-file that must exist in Malfoy’s head. Still, he doesn’t make to move any closer.

“So is everyone…” He stops, eyes lifting and widening. Harry turns around, noting that the room has emptied just as the double doors leading into the rest of Malfoy’s flat close, the miniscule space between them and around the jams sealing with a bright flare of magic. Malfoy brushes past him, reaching to yank the doors open, then pulls back with yelp, cradling his hand.

Harry pushes him aside and grabs the doorknob, only to feel a sharp burn in his palm. He pulls away too, but manages not to yelp, at least.

“Brilliant,” Malfoy sneers, shaking his hand out. Harry grimaces, pulling his wand, when Blaise’s ghostly cougar materialises suddenly, pawing at the floor. 

“Happy Birthday, Draco,” it informs them. “This took a lot to arrange, so don’t bother trying to unseal the door; it would take you hours and neither of you would have energy for anything else. The Floo has been closed, as well. We all suggest you two spend the time,” and here, Harry can practically _see_ Blaise’s smug smirk; he wonders why he ever started liking the bastard, “working out your _issues_. Hermione says it wasn’t her idea. ...Ginny wants me to tell you both that it really was.”

Eyes sparking with an odd sort of outrage, Malfoy yells, “There are fifty people out there!” 

“Sixty-two,” comes the reply. “But we’re leaving. Someone will come by to check on you in the morning.”

“You couldn’t have done this in his _bedroom_?” Harry snaps at the dissipating Patronus. Malfoy’s eyes swerve to him, wide with shock. Harry shrugs. “Well, we were just talking about it, weren’t we?”

“That’s the Goblin whisky,” Malfoy murmurs.

“Probably, but wasn’t that the point? Got any more?”

Without pause, Malfoy turns and heads over to the bar. The elf has been taken hostage or something, Harry supposes as he follows, and he should probably be more concerned over the whole matter of all of their friends conspiring to get them to have sex. But it’s hard to focus on much beyond the way Malfoy’s arse flexes under the tight tailoring of his trousers, narrow hips and waist defined by the nip in the back of his waistcoat. He ducks under the partition of the bar and starts fiddling behind it, then plunks a glass down atop it. 

Harry starts to take it; hesitates. “Did you remove the alcohol?”

Malfoy eyes him warily. “You drank my champagne.”

“Still. I don’t want to suddenly imagine I’m shagging Ron at some point.”

“Merlin,” Malfoy says in a soft, huffed breath, irises becoming nothing but a slender ring of silver encasing black. He pulls his wand from an inside pocket of his waistcoat and taps the drink with a muttered charm, then slides it closer. “I don’t think you really need them at this point.”

“Not sure I ever did,” Harry says, fingers on the cool glass. He spins it slowly over the bartop, finding the gentle scrape of it soothing. He’s proud when the tremor in his voice is barely audible, for all that he’s shaking inside. “You could have just mentioned.”

“I don’t do that; I said,” Malfoy says, cords of his throat tightening. Harry wants to lick them. Can, he realises. Soon, maybe. “But if I had…”

“I don’t know,” Harry says honestly. “I’d have… wanted to. But…”

Malfoy’s eyes flatten out. “And that’s why I didn’t say.”

“Not _that_ ,” Harry tells him, exasperated that Malfoy still thinks Harry sees him through the lens of the war. After a beat, fairness makes him add, “Mostly, anyway. It’s just…” He clears his throat and takes a long swallow of the Goblin whisky. “That stuff you and Theo were talking about.”

“Relax, Potter, I’m not into the _really_ rough stuff.” Malfoy snorts, then tilts his head. “Probably. Why, are you? I mean, I’m open to—”

Something akin to panic but far more intoxicating tumbles around in Harry’s stomach. He sets down his drink and meets Malfoy’s eyes. “I haven’t done it, so I wouldn’t know.” When Malfoy looks at him blankly, he clarifies, “Any of it, really. Sex. With a bloke, at least. I’ve snogged a couple. Gotten a,” heat rises in his cheeks, but he pushes forward, “a blowjob from one.”

“Ah.” The word comes out faint, but Malfoy’s gaze is clear and assessing. “Then you’re a—”

“No,” Harry says pointedly. “Just never with a man.”

Malfoy nods absently, looking at him quite hard. But his smile, when it comes, is filled with a sort of gentle amusement that somehow doesn’t set Harry’s teeth on edge. “Is this your version of kink negotiation, Potter?”

“What’s that?” Harry jokes, only a little nervously, pleased when Malfoy gives a surprised laugh. His laugh is warm, startlingly bawdy, and Harry’s body tightens further.

His voice lowers and he meets Harry’s eyes, placing his forearms on the bartop and leaning across it. “What do you like?”  
‘  
Harry bites his lip, fingers tapping an uneven beat against the polished surface of the bar. “What do you think I’d like?”

“Everything I can do,” Malfoy says simply. 

Breath catching, Harry nods. “I’ve no doubt.”

“Then are we going to talk about it all night, or do you to trust me?” 

The pause that follows is lengthy and uncomfortable, both of them hearing the words in a way different than Harry’s sure Malfoy intended. He can see Malfoy’s uncertainty in the shift of his gaze, in the slight shuttering of his confident expression. 

Harry turns the words over in his mind for a moment — _do you trust me_ — to consider them, despite all of the reasons that make it possible for him to work beside Malfoy every day. Like the fact that Malfoy testified against his own father to keep his mother out of Azkaban, even knowing that Harry was set to testify on her behalf as well. Like his refusal of his old wand when Harry tried to pass it back to him, his stiff, “Thank you, but I want something new.” Like the way he gave an interview before applying to the Auror Corp, detailing the atrocities he saw and participated in as a young Death Eater, even knowing that it may cost him his spot, because, as he said, “I’ve spent my whole life living up to the lie that I was better than everyone else when all we caused was pain. Is that what good wizards do?”

“We’re not going to talk about it all night,” Harry finally says quietly, the words like a tide dragging him closer to Malfoy, who shudders once and then stills. Harry slowly reaches across the bar and plucks at the open collar of Malfoy’s shirt, thumb skimming the hollow of his throat before he moves his fingers down to pop open the next button, then the next, eyes on the pale skin slowly revealed between the parting of expensive silk. 

Malfoy’s Sectumsempra scars are pale, almost five years later — wispy, silvery slashes that only occasionally shine in certain lights. Harry’s seen them in the showers, once or twice, swiftly looking away from them as much as Malfoy’s lithe, damp body, with nothing but a towel knotted ‘round his waist to cover him. But Harry actively seeks them out now as he folds the two halves of Malfoy’s shirt open down to where his waistcoat covers, looking silently at the slashes over his chest, criss-crossing under his sternum, before Malfoy places a hand on his wrist. Harry looks up; Malfoy’s cheeks are red, his lower lip plump as though he’s been biting it, his eyes glittering with triumph. 

“Talking is encouraged, actually,” Malfoy says in a low, promising voice that zings straight to Harry’s already-damp cock. 

“Yeah?” Harry peels his hand from under Malfoy’s. “What’d I talk to Ron about? How much I wanted you?”

Malfoy’s smirk renews; he picks up Harry’s drink and tips the last swallow of it into his mouth, then licks his lips. “You also got a bit chatty about your persistent erections.”

Refusing to blush, Harry nods as though he’d expected to hear that. “Is that why you undressed me?”

“Had to get a good look, didn’t I? To see if you were worth the effort,” Malfoy adds, smug. “I have certain… Size preferences.”

“I thought you waited for others to make the effort,” Harry says, cock throbbing at the implication that Malfoy _had_ found him worth it. He ignores the size thing as best he can, while it makes itself quite known in the fit of his trousers.

“I help a little,” Malfoy breathes, eyes gleaming when they catch Harry’s own. Then he snags Harry’s tie, twisting it around his hand, and hauls Harry half over the bar, mouth coming down over his, slick and warm and tasting of romantic courage-infused non-alcoholic liquor. Malfoy kisses him hungrily before he can respond, but then a soft groan is falling from Harry’s lips into Malfoy’s greedy mouth, swallowed by him and then echoed, every tiny slanting of his head radiating sensation through Harry’s limbs and puddling in his stomach in a warm, satisfying buzz of anticipation. 

Harry darts a tongue against his lips and Malfoy parts them wider, his own tongue coming out to flick against Harry’s, lips _sucking_ at it. Harry surges into him when he does that, their teeth clicking in his startlement, kissing him back harder. Malfoy huffs a laugh, sounding pleased, and lets his teeth graze Harry’s tongue, lips slipping around it in another gentle suck before pulling away.

“That,” Harry says breathlessly, interrupting him before he can speak. 

“What?” Malfoy’s eyes are dark, slumberous. Bedroom eyes, Harry thinks, heart-thudding heavily. 

“You asked what I liked.” Harry licks his lips and leans in again, seeking Malfoy’s mouth, but Malfoy tilts just out of reach, the bar halting Harry from his goal. “I like that. Kissing,” he says, lips still tingling. “I’ve always…”

“That bodes well,” Malfoy murmurs. “Then come on, Potter. Kiss me all you like.”

The partition is three feet away, but Harry can’t be bothered to put that much distance between them.He plants both hands on the bartop and jumps, climbing up and swinging himself over then, sliding down the other side as Malfoy watches with what looks like barely contained glee. His pale brow hooks up again.

“Oh stop it,” Harry says, already edging into his space, unable to bite back his smile.“You wanted me to do that.” 

Malfoy doesn’t deny it, but he doesn’t really have time, either. Harry pushes him bodily into the shelves of alcohol; at their jostling, one of them flares with a spurt of blue-green fire inside its glass bottle. Malfoy snorts, shoving him back against the bar and taking his mouth in another kiss. His hands flatten against Harry’s chest then stroke lower, almost lazily, curling around Harry’s hips to drag their bodies into tight contact. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry breathes, Malfoy’s cock a hard, slender line against his groin. He wedges a hand between their bodies and clumsily works Malfoy’s waistcoat buttons open, perhaps popping one or two of them off in his haste, as Malfoy begins a slow grind against him that should be seven different types of illegal but thankfully isn’t — which he must know, legal procedures being one of the two courses he beat Harry’s training scores in. His thigh finds its way between Harry’s legs and Harry jerks against it tentatively, needing the friction but unable to bear too much of it yet; he’d not be surprised to find that his trousers had soaked through with a visible patch of damp, he’s so hard. 

Finally, he manages to wrangle Malfoy’s shirt and waistcoat off, both at once and each tangling together. He drops them to the floor and Malfoy knocks his legs wider, bending Harry backward against the bar to pin him there as they kiss, the long line of his body hunched over to cover Harry completely. He makes a small sound against Harry’s mouth as he breaks away temporarily, jerking Harry’s tie loose and yanking it off over his head, knocking his glasses crooked with it. Harry removes them, not bothering to fold the legs — not even sure where they go once they’re off his face, truth be told — and allows Malfoy to drag his shirttails out of his trousers, then skillfully unbutton Harry’s shirt and strip it away. 

Malfoy’s torso is hard and lean under Harry’s hands as he presses closer again, chest rising and falling swiftly against Harry’s own; his back flexes, and Harry grips it tight, slipping his fingers into the back of Malfoy’s trousers, under the cinch of his belt. He nips at Harry’s jaw, then catches the shell of his ear between his teeth before darting a lick against it. The contrasting sensation of his warm breath against the damp makes Harry shiver as Malfoy asks, “Those things you heard me talking to Theo about?”

“Y-yeah?” Somehow, Harry fits his fingers down to the knuckle into the backs of Malfoy’s trousers, probably just from sheer determination. Malfoy’s arse is firm against them; it tightens and then releases under them. Malfoy chuckles and rolls his hips again teasingly, his prick coasting off Harry’s own for one blindingly good moment before he pulls away to start unbuckling his belt. The gentle clink of metal on metal sounds loud in the room, as loud as their breaths, as pointed. 

“Which was it that made you lean into me?” Malfoy asks, lips curving with lewd interest. “The talk of rimming you? Letting you shag me? Blowing you?”

“Yes,” Harry gasps. He fists a hand in Malfoy’s hair to draw him close and bites at his neck savagely, control spinning from his grasp fast. Malfoy falls against him pliantly, voice cracking on a low moan as Harry’s teeth sink hard enough into the bend of his neck to leave imprints. His free hand scrambles between them, knocking Malfoy’s away to yank down the zipper of his trousers. And thank _fuck_ for his judicious wanking before showing up, Harry thinks as he worms his hand inside Malfoy’s boxers, because otherwise he’d be in a bit of an embarrassing spot, just from curling his hand around the long, rigid arc of Draco’s cock and skimming his thumb over the slippery slit, its foreskin tight around the swollen head. He eases it back — maybe too fast, maybe too carelessly, but Malfoy doesn’t object, clinging to him tighter and wrenching his neck away from Harry’s gnawing mouth to dip his head and catch his lips in another kiss. 

“You’ve— You’ve never,” Malfoy gets out, panting and bucking fast into Harry’s grip. 

“I’ve wanked.” Harry’s voice breaks on a laugh that sounds like a gasp, sounds like sex and want and, _fuck_ , he didn’t know he could sound that way; even with Ginny, his body never vibrated with as much tension. Malfoy smells like lemons, but also musky and rich, just under his jaw where Harry kisses him next, male and warm — almost briny, like the ocean. Harry twists his hand teasingly over Malfoy’s prick, thumb following the line on the pulsing vein beneath it as he explores the differences: Malfoy’s cock is more slender than his, but just as long, and curves gracefully to the side, ruddy pink and already leaking.

A soft snarl breaks free from Malfoy’s throat at Harry’s investigation of his cock; he knocks Harry’s hand away. “Goddamnit, Potter, let’s spend time teaching you something you _don’t_ know how to do,” he says, fingers satisfyingly clumsy on Harry’s flies as he drags the zip down. He looks up, eyes blown black, and mutters, “The sofa.”

“Here,” Harry counters boldly, though he nearly swallows his tongue when he adds, “Bend over.”

“It’s my birthday, you can’t just—”

“Malfoy,” Harry says, jaw ticking painfully when Malfoy sucks in a breath and turns in his arms, twisting his head to the side to kiss Harry again even as Harry swirls them to face the bar and pushes Malfoy’s trousers down around his thighs. He stops, his own prick jerking high at the sight of Malfoy’s arse — pale and perfectly defined with the muscles of a runner, rounder than it looks in his clothes. Harry gulps, petting a shaky hand down the curve of one cheek. Malfoy twists again to look at him, eyes glittering.

“You have to get me—”

“Oh my _god_.” Abruptly fed up, Harry drops to his knees and palms Malfoy’s arse cheeks apart. He’s almost as pale there as everywhere else, and Harry loses his breath a bit at the sight of Malfoy’s arsehole, dusky pink and furled tight. He’s never done this, never done a lot of things, but he’s riding instinct like he’s always done and the sharp promise of Goblin whisky fortifies his own want. It may be Malfoy’s birthday — and he certainly has more experience — but Malfoy’s been treating him like an idiot for _ten fucking years_ , and it’s about goddamn time he stopped.

Harry leans in and mutters an inelegant cleansing charm, ignoring Malfoy’s high little grunt of surprise, and tentatively licks a flat stripe up Malfoy’s crease. He does it again, firmer, when Malfoy jerks against him, voice coming out faint and thready as he says something that Harry’s brain is too fried to process. Harry continues, dragging his lips up to the twin dimples above Malfoy’s cleft, then back down in wet, open-mouthed kisses, tongue slipping over the silky-soft flesh and pausing to circle around his pucker. Malfoy tastes like clean skin and soap, male and musky like under his jaw, and Harry grips his hips to yank his arse closer, hungry for more of it. He follows the line of Malfoy's arse down to his bollocks, heavy and tight between his thighs and licks at them curiously, sucking one into his mouth and then the other, feeling the fine skin slide against his tongue, wetting the soft fuzz of hair on them. He moves back up when Malfoy jerks again, rumbling a loud whine. 

“P-P-P—” Malfoy reaches back and threads clenching fingers through his hair. He starts riding Harry’s face as Harry explores him with his tongue, teeth nipping gently around the thin, furrowed skin of Malfoy’s hole, lips sucking lightly. “You, _unh_...” His voice is light, quieter than the sound of his heavy, shuddering breaths, “You said you'd never…”

Harry draws his mouth away for a second with a rough, swirling lick, grinning when Malfoy's hips dance again. “I'll lend you my reading material sometime.”

Malfoy tightens his hand in Harry’s hair, leading his face back with a muttered curse. Harry obliges, lapping messily against his clenching arsehole, excitement blazing through his body when it softens under his tongue to allow him to press the tip inside. Malfoy groans and abruptly shoves his hips back, hands disappearing from Harry’s hair to smack down against the bartop. Startled, Harry pauses, then pushes his tongue deeper, curling it inside Malfoy’s spit-slicked rim and pulling back before thrusting it forward, picking up a decent rhythm and shimmying his head head to give himself more leverage. He fucks into Malfoy steadily with his tongue, echoing the groans falling brokenly from Malfoy’s mouth, his hands spreading Malfoy’s arse cheeks wide to facilitate ease of penetration — which actually _does_ come easier now. Malfoy’s hole softens and clenches greedily around his tongue each time Harry breaches his arse with it, soft with promising little spasms that set Harry’s lips to tingling and make his cock spurt a thick string of precome into his pants. He finally pulls away, panting, the sudden knowledge flirting through his mind that if he keeps going he’ll come, just from the pleasure of doing this, from hearing Malfoy’s soft, hoarse demands of _More, Potter_ and _Eat me harder, you absolute bastard_. Fingers digging into the firm muscle of Malfoy’s buttocks, he gives his arsehole a final, rough lick, a scraping little bite, before he forces himself up and away, covering Malfoy’s back with his chest and lightly gripping the nape of his neck with his teeth for a moment.

“I want to fuck you. I don’t care how.”

Malfoy groans, tugging on Harry’s hips in a clumsy downward slide as though trying to push him back to his knees; he gives up after a moment and nods, head hanging forward, arse clenching and unclenching against Harry’s rutting cock. Still, he manages to sound snide. “There’s a right way and a wrong way to—”

“Lube,” Harry demands breathlessly, a little thrill shivering through him as he pushes his trousers and pants down around his thighs, chin tilted on Malfoy’s shoulder. He looks out over the empty parlour, the expanse of space that contains nothing that looks like a bed if he disregards the plush, expensive sofa. Malfoy’s hands press flat against the counter of the bar, his fingertips white under the nails as he arches against Harry, seeking relief. Harry’s huffing breath bounces off the back of Malfoy’s neck — it feels heated and damp, like the crevice of Malfoy’s arse when Harry reaches down to press his prick into it, rolling his hips up and down as Malfoy’s buttocks tighten around his shaft. He doesn’t recognise his own voice. “ _Please_ , Malfoy, _lube_!”

Either finding his own coherence somewhere or finally deciding to stop being a complete dick, Malfoy mumbles something under his breath. It takes him a few tries — that spell Harry memorised back in fifth year, curtains pulled tight around his bed, a careful _Muffliato_ charmed into place — but he finally reaches back with a drippingly slick hand, groping for Harry’s cock stroking between his cheeks. Finding it, he slips silky fingers over the shaft; he lifts it away from himself, hand shaking as he coats it, then rubs the excess against his crease. Just _watching_ him do it has Harry’s blood boiling, the way Malfoy’s fingers trace with fumbling earnestness over his own rim, two of them pressing a scant inch inside of himself, his body twisting awkwardly to reach. Harry flicks his eyes up when Malfoy pulls his hand back around; he finds Malfoy already watching him, eyes glittering with demand and acquiescence, the muscles of his face taut with expectation. 

“Potter.” Malfoy’s voice is entirely new as well, gruff with desire, the plummy, precise tones Harry associates it with falling away. He sounds real and raw, the way Harry feels now, the room shimmering around them both at a manic tilt as he lines up his cock and starts to push. 

And, “oh, fuck,” Harry whispers, Malfoy’s rim stretching tight around the head of his prick. He pushes too hard, too fast; he knows he’s doing it but can barely bring himself to stop, even when Malfoy reaches back with a deep, rough moan and says, “ _Wait, wait!_ ” Pulling from some hidden reservoir of control, Harry forces his hips to halt, his aching cockhead encased ridiculously tight just inside Malfoy’s arsehole. 

Then the music starts.

Harry jerks forward a notch, cock nudging deeper, and Malfoy hisses for a split second before his whole body seizes up — Harry moans; in delight or complaint, he can’t be sure — as he processes the existence of the music too. It’s a boisterous ragtime tune, one that seems to come from an old-fashioned player piano like the one that Arthur’s got charmed to light up with _The Entertainer_ when anyone steps into his shed. 

“You fucking _arseholes!_ ” Malfoy yells, outraged. Harry hears a muffled laugh drift in from the other side of the door and snorts, earning himself a belligerent glance whipped over Malfoy’s shoulder. Malfoy bares his teeth. “They were supposed to _leave_.”

“They set this _up_ ; why are you surprised?” Harry mutters back with a strained smile, a ragged groan slipping free from his throat when Malfoy’s arse suddenly softens around his cock, Malfoy’s hand reaching back to grip his thigh tight.

“Just… shut up.” The back of Malfoy’s neck has turned phoenix red, whether from his weak retort or the feel of Harry’s cock breaching him inch by steady inch, Harry doesn’t know. His hand is both gentle and urgent on Harry’s thigh and he leans forward a bit more; his back expands when he intakes a deep breath and holds it. Harry pushes forward one last time just as Malfoy tips back and then Harry’s cock is lodged impossibly deep, pelvis pressed flush with Malfoy’s arse, balls brushing against the backs of his sparsely-furred thighs.

Malfoy moans; he cuts himself off halfway through, even as the walls of his arse tighten around Harry’s prick for one dizzyingly delicious moment. “They’re listening,” Malfoy hisses.

Harry doesn’t know if anyone can actually _hear_ them over the music — although he wouldn’t put it past their friends to have a magical camera installed in the fishtank, bunch of bloody weirdos that they are — but he doesn’t miss the way Malfoy pants when he says it, the way his body responds. 

He hunches over Malfoy, closing his eyes as it changes the angle of his penetration to something shallower, but tighter. His words feather Malfoy’s hair up, and Malfoy shivers. “They are. They can hear every,” Harry says as he pulls back and snaps his hips, “little,” he adds, yanking Malfoy’s arse back against him, “sound you make,” he finishes, teeth grazing sharp and demanding against the soft, tense bend of Malfoy’s shoulder. 

“Fuck, _fuck_!” Malfoy rams himself backward, back scooping away from Harry as he starts to work his hips. It’s already so good, so blindingly good, that the the only words Harry can think of are _tight_ and _wet_ and _hot_ as Malfoy starts steadily taking him apart by doing nothing more than fucking himself on Harry’s swollen, aching cock. Harry watches as it disappears into him, tender glistening skin stretched tight around Harry’s shaft each time Malfoy surges forward and then against him, his frantic, broken moans loud and untempered, echoing in the emptiness of the room. 

Harry’s doesn’t know whether to move or allow himself to take it, to be _taken_ like this — and Jesus, leave it to Malfoy to be to the one to fuck _him_ when Harry’s cock his up _his_ arse, Harry thinks, great rushes of overwhelming pleasure blanking out rational thought — but instinct overtakes him and he fucks forward on a hard thrust, distantly pleased when Malfoy gasps and shudders. Malfoy grips one of the hands on his hips and drags it around, pressing it to his stiff, bouncing prick.

“Make me scream,” he rasps out. “Make them hear it, Potter.”

Then Harry is fucking into him, frenzied, balls slapping against Malfoy’s closed thighs, the hand over Malfoy’s cock moving by muscle memory alone. Malfoy’s cock fits neatly into his sweaty fist as he drives into him — harder and harder, again and again — and he bunches the foreskin back toward the base with every stroke; smooths the skin back over the slick, dribbling slit. Malfoy grunts in time with each slam of his torso into the lip of the bar, moans with each frantic whip of Harry’s hips. 

“Malfoy,” Harry gasps, on the verge of a scream, himself, cock painfully hard, balls drawn up close between his thighs, “I’m going to— Fuck, _fuck_ , I’m coming…” He cries out, head falling back and mouth open on a yell that runs dry and silent, grinding his cock deep, hand slackening over Malfoy’s prick as his own throbs out spunk, a warm splash of fluid that Harry can feel immediately begin to seep around the shaft of his prick. He slumps, hips jerking erratically as he rides his climax out inside Malfoy, whose words skim over Harry’s consciousness without breaking the surface. 

“What,” he mumbles, Merlin knows how long later, when a pain in his wrist grows too sharp to ignore. He tries to tug it away, and Malfoy’s low, furiously howled expletives finally penetrate. 

“Goddamn it you fucker, I’m not _finished_ yet!” 

The pain in his hand, Harry realises over Malfoy’s yell, is Malfoy’s slender fingers tightening Harry’s grip over his cock. Malfoy throws himself backward on Harry’s slowly-softening cock and the world snaps back into place. Harry straightens, gripping Malfoy’s cock more firmly and starting to stroke, and rocks into Malfoy. His cock is overstimulated and it almost _hurts_ , but the lingering pleasure each thrust wrings is worth it, as well as the groaning babble toppling from Malfoy’s tongue, things like, “Knew it’d feel this way, you’re fucking me so deep you bastard, don’t stop don’t stop don’t fucking _stop_!” 

And then Malfoy is coming too with a sharp _“Potter!”_ , his cock throbbing in Harry’s hand. Harry drags his fist down over the head and cups his hand in a fast, ruthless twist, feeling Malfoy’s come wet his fingers, palm getting streaked with thick, sticky-slick ropes of it. Malfoy’s arse massages his prick, spasming convulsively, and Harry holds himself still to just _feel_ it, feel the way Malfoy comes around him, shuddering and panting, all of his posh refinement decimated by the untempered enthusiasm of fucking. It goes on and on, but Harry finally allows himself to stop moving when Malfoy shivers around him once more and then goes still, laying his chest flat against the counter, his his ragged breaths creating a instantly-disappearing fog on the polished top. 

“Thanks,” Malfoy says at length, pushing himself up so that Harry’s cock slips out of him, “for coming.”

“I thought you were pretty mad about my timing, actually,” Harry says, stroking around his own cock with a light touch, slick with come and lube. 

Malfoy snorts. He pushes Harry another step back without looking at him, before hiking up his pants and trousers with one hand to keep them in place. He steps gingerly down the length of the bar, holding onto it for balance, then tosses the partition up and wobbles across the room to collapse on the sofa with a wince. Chagrined, Harry follows, muscles twinging in places he hadn’t known they _could_ twinge. Malfoy’s eyes track his progress, and Harry blushes hot as it occurs to him that he’s done nothing to right his clothing beyond pulling his pants and trousers up far enough that he can move, that he’s walking toward Malfoy shirtless, trousers shoved around his hips and soft, wet cock on full display. He reaches to close his flies, but Malfoy shakes his head, an odd smile tilting his lips. 

“Let me look.”

Face burning, Harry allows his hands to fall away from his clothing. “It’s your party.”

“That’s right.” Malfoy sighs, then leans his head back; Harry can see the darkening bruises dotting his throat and something primal inside twists with possessive satisfaction. He forces it down — a shag, no matter how brilliant, doesn’t always _mean_ something, and he’s known Malfoy for too long to to expect that any of this is going to be easy or uncomplicated.

Except, well… It _feels_ rather easy and uncomplicated as he sits down next to Malfoy, close enough to touch. Malfoy still has that tiny smile on his face, and that looks rather simple too, soft and achingly sweet. He reaches out and startles Harry by petting Harry’s flaccid prick with peculiar familiarity, almost as if he would a cat. Harry tries not to push his hips into it.

“Tosser,” Harry says.

Malfoy draws his hand away, a wrinkle appearing between his brows. “What?”

“Your cat.” Harry looks around. “They really got rid of everyone, didn’t they?”

“Oh.” Malfoy’s hand returns to Harry’s cock. He smiles, lifting it and playing with it like a kid with a new toy at Christmas. Harry tries not to be charmed… And tries again not to push into the sensation. Both are harder this time. “I guess so. Her box is in contained in its own little room.”

“That’s… Weird.” Harry rests his hand on Malfoy’s wrist. “How’d people know to take her out of here?”

“Oh…” Malfoy shrugs, eyes shifting to the side. “Everyone’s been to my flat a few times.”

“Yeah. But.” Harry licks his lips. “Well enough to know that you don’t keep the cat box in the loo off your parlour?” He examines Malfoy’s darkening cheeks with interest. “People usually leave out details when planning something… nefarious,” he says, quoting the most basic text on investigative work. It’s one of the only lines he’s got memorised, but it’s served him in good stead, a time or two.

“Potter, you just got _laid_ , and — much to my humiliation — in listening distance of all of our friends… as well as a few of my more pleasant family members,” Malfoy huffs defensively. “What exactly are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything,” Harry says, unable to hide the growth of his smile. He feels the urge to crow, because he _knew_ it. 

Well, sort of.

“I’m flat out saying,” he continues after deliriously fun moment during which Malfoy refuses to look at him, pale brows arched haughtily, eyes innocent and blank on his fish tank, “you were the one who orchestrated this!”

“I did nothing of the sort, Potter. You’ve had too much to…” He falters. 

“Fake drink?” Harry suggests. His cheeks are going to crack. 

“It’s _possible_ your pet Weasel wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to kill you if you actually showed up,” Malfoy says after a long pause, as good an admission as Harry’s likely to get. Harry laughs. Then, “Meanwhile, you didn’t even bring a present with you.”

Smug, he nods. “Yes I did. I got you a ridiculously expensive tie from that Wizardswear place on Diagon I can’t pronounce.”

“You got—” The languorous expression on Malfoy’s face vanishes and he sits up. By all rights, he _should_ look as ridiculous as Harry feels, trousers open and shirt off — his hair is a disaster, sweaty and tangled, and he has a lovely, fading, blotchy blush over his chest and neck — but he just looks excited. Which is rather… sweet. “Those ties cost—”

“I know,” Harry says wryly, just as Malfoy draws his wand and says, “ _Accio_ Potter’s present.” 

Harry’s pocket twitches hard between them, the envelope inside jerking against the fabric, trying to get out. He and Malfoy both look down at it, and Malfoy looks back up at his face in confusion just in time to get clobbered on the cheek by the tie box, hurtling over from the gift table. 

“Fuck!”

“Told you it was a tie,” Harry mumbles, pressing a tight hand to his pocket.

“I’m suddenly no longer interested in the tie.”

“But it was really expensive,” Harry says temptingly, flashing his most winning smile. Malfoy rolls his eyes and places his hand out, palm up and flat.

“Give.”

Reminded of their first interaction of the evening — which _did_ turn out pretty well, all things considered — Harry digs in his pocket and pulls out the envelope, slapping it into Malfoy’s hand with ill-grace. “Fine. But it’s not anything. It doesn’t _mean_ anything. It was just an idea, and a stupid one. And I wasn’t even going to come a lot of the time. I mean, you’d have had to see me there on Sundays, but—”

Malfoy stares downward. “You gave me your extra open season ticket to—”

“Well I didn’t, actually,” Harry mutters. “Your stupid _Accio_ did.”

“Wouldn’t have worked if you still hadn’t wanted to give it to me,” Malfoy says and, unfortunately, Harry can’t think of a reasonable excuse to that one. But then Malfoy continues, “It’s not as if you’re asking to _date_ me…” 

Harry’s heart, lodged in his throat, starts to plummet. It’s precisely the sort of thing he’d have expected to hear from Malfoy after brilliant sex, if anyone had bothered to warn him it was about to happen. Except, Malfoy looks at him from under the veil of pale lashes, soft like corn wheat, and his grey eyes reflect the same uncertainty Harry saw when Malfoy asked for his trust. 

He clears his throat. “Might’ve been,” he says lightly, looking away. “Though, like I said, only on Sundays if you wanted to go to some Saturday games alone.”

There’s a long pause. Malfoy fits the ticket back into the envelope with care then quietly says, “Quidditch games are boring when you’re on your own and have no one to,” he coughs lightly, “educate on the finer points of the game.”

Incredulous, Harry slants a look at him. “I’m in need of education on Quidditch?”

“You have a Cannons t-shirt, don’t you?” Malfoy asks calmly.

Harry inclines his head, grimacing; that’s fair. He looks at Malfoy’s lips for a moment. They’re swollen and soft, and he has a faint, pink whisker burn around his mouth and on his chin. He glances back up in time to see the keen interest in Malfoy’s gaze before he looks back down, busying himself by studying the ticket. Harry wants to kiss him again; he thinks it even might be decently received. But there’s something far more intimate about kissing just for the sake of kissing than he can wrap his mind around in his post-coital fog, and he doesn’t want to destroy the tenuous, implicit agreement they’ve just come to before he… figures out what that _is_. He can wait until Sunday to kiss him again. Or until sex; whichever comes first.

He leans against Malfoy instead, surprised at how nice that feels, too: shoulder to shoulder, Malfoy shifting to fit them more comfortably together. He even drapes one long leg over Harry’s shin, as though they’re a long-time couple settling down to watch television, and they sit like that for a few minutes in silence until Harry clears his throat. 

“So…” Harry waits until Malfoy looks back up at him. “Are we really caught in here all night?”

Malfoy’s face flickers. “Do you have other plans?”

“Plenty.” Harry grins. “I thought we might make creative use of your tie if we can get to your bedroom.”

Looking intrigued, Malfoy murmurs, “At least buy me dinner first, Potter.”

“I just bought you a tie!”

“Well.” Malfoy sniffs and nods at the doors, through which a swing number sounds. “I’m certainly not leaving this room until everyone has actually gone.”

“So you _do_ know how to get out,” Harry says slyly. Malfoy shakes his head, then nods, then shakes his head again, then glares ferociously at Harry. Harry nudges him with his shoulder, tempting Malfoy’s stiffness to ease. 

“I may,” Malfoy finally allows, slanting him a tiny smile. It turns predatory when Harry’s gaze lingers on it again. “But in the meantime, my sofa is quite comfortable.”

“I noticed,” Harry says breathlessly. Malfoy’s hand finds his cock again, no longer as soft as it was a few minutes ago… But then again, neither are Malfoy’s eyes. “It’s very comfortable. And it is still your birthday, after all.”

“Exactly. So what I want, I get.”

“Next year, give me a list,” Harry tells him, canting his hips forward. Malfoy’s hand falters momentarily, then he swallows hard and nods again, hand resuming its slow slide over Harry’s prick.

“I will. And you? I suppose straightforward lists are the Gryffindor thing to do,” he says, voice low in Harry’s ear as he twists his torso to lean into Harry. “And your birthday isn’t too far off.”

“No, it’s not.” Harry finally gives into temptation and kisses him, chin coming up a fraction so he can find Malfoy’s mouth with his own. Just like he’d thought, Malfoy is receptive, kissing him back with slow fervor, lips parted, tongue brushing against Harry’s own. It’s soft, and it’ll lead to sex, but it’s also… more.

It’s a lot more.

“Better get started on that list, then,” Malfoy says. “Salazar knows we can’t leave it up to our friends. Look what they got _me_ ,” he says, snickering. Harry grins and kisses him again, letting Malfoy press him down into the cushions. “So… What don’t you have, that you’d like?”

Harry opens his mouth to respond, then promptly shuts it. Malfoy draws back to look at him quizzically, and Harry shakes his head and pulls him into another kiss.

Because he can’t think of a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are lovely. I'm also on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com/) now, too! *waves*  
> (so is [Noeon!](http://noeeon.tumblr.com/))


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